“Only to the distillation racket. Orton swore that neither of them had the faintest inkling as to how Thurlow and Martin met their deaths. We shall get hold of Miss Garford very soon. We’ve got a man on her spoor already. She’ll be fined heavily for her share in the game, but seeing that she’s in for a legacy of ten thousand pounds, that won’t break her back. Miss Shimpling admitted frankly that she knew all about the secret liquor traffic but had no hand in the business whatever. She had always tried to get Orton to chuck it up before he was discovered.”
“And what has happened to Ephraim Noy, Heather?” asked Vereker.
“You’ll be delighted to hear we caught him hiding in London, Brixton way, yesterday,” replied Heather triumphantly.
“Got a hanging case at last, Heather! You ought to be thoroughly satisfied now,” remarked Vereker.
“I don’t know so much about that, Mr. Vereker. Noy may escape the gallows by the skin of his teeth. He has admitted knocking Thurlow on the head with that iron bar, but he’ll put up the defence that he did it in self-defence. Thurlow was armed with a revolver and had already fired one shot. Noy was indirectly the cause of Martin’s death, but can truthfully say he didn’t kill him. We must wait and see and I hope the prosecuting counsel’s a brilliant man. I’m not too happy about it all. Besides, I’ve had to buy you a box of fifty cigarettes.”
Heather tossed the box of cigarettes to Vereker and buried his grief under an upturned tankard.
THE END
About The Author
Robin Forsythe was born Robert Forsythe in 1879. His place of birth was Sialkot, in modern day Pakistan. His mother died when a younger brother was born two years later, and ‘Robin’ was brought up by an ayah until he was six, when he returned to the United Kingdom, and went to school in Glasgow and Northern Ireland. In his teens he had short stories and poetry published and went to London wanting to be a writer.
He married in 1909 and had a son the following year, later working as a clerk at Somerset House in London when he was arrested for theft and fraud in 1928. Sentenced to fifteen months, he began to write his first detective novel in prison.
On his release in 1929 Robin Forsythe published his debut, Missing or Murdered. It introduced Anthony ‘Algernon’ Vereker, an eccentric artist with an extraordinary flair for detective work. It was followed by four more detective novels in the Vereker series, ending with The Spirit Murder Mystery in 1936. All the novels are characterized by the sharp plotting and witty dialogue which epitomize the more effervescent side of golden age crime fiction.
Robin Forsythe died in 1937.
Also by Robin Forsythe
Missing or Murdered
The Polo Ground Mystery
The Pleasure Cruise Mystery
The Ginger Cat Mystery
Robin Forsythe
Missing or Murdered
AN “ALGERNON VEREKER” MYSTERY
There was no mistaking the sound: it was that of a stealthy footfall, and it appeared to come from the staircase leading to the next floor.
Lord Bygrave left the Ministry on Friday evening, with plans for a fortnight’s holiday in the country. But the following morning he had seemingly vanished into thin air. Now Scotland Yard are struggling to find evidence of foul play in the absence of tangible clues. A national newspaper is offering a reward for information about the Minister’s disappearance – whether Bygrave be dead or alive.
Anthony “Algernon” Vereker, Lord Bygrave’s friend and executor, joins Scotland Yard in their investigation of the mystery. So begins the first of five ingenious and effervescent detective novels featuring Vereker, an amiable and eccentric artist with a razor-sharp mind. Missing or Murdered (1929), is republished here for the first time in over 70 years. It includes a new introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
‘This is not only a detective story of considerable ingenuity, but it is also a well-written tale with good characterisation.’ Times Literary Supplement
Chapter One
Mr. Gregory Grierson, Chief Clerk, sat at his desk at the Ministry of X— near an open window overlooking the Thames with his gaze fixed on the swiftly outflowing tide, all sparkling and flashing in the bright October sun. The wide stretch of water below him was pulsating with golden light, but, though his vision was intent on this splendour, his thoughts were elsewhere. They were evidently occupied with some unpleasant subject, for every now and then he frowned and the lids of his eyes narrowed until the pupils were almost hidden.
At length he rose impatiently from his chair, as if summarily wrenching himself free from the domination of that distasteful train of speculation, and walked leisurely over to the tall vase of sweet-peas standing on the mantelpiece. He gazed with genuine admiration at the delicate blossoms and tenderly re-arranged them with a sensitive and rather finely shaped hand. Then he stood back a pace and regarded them critically. Yes, they were undoubtedly superb blooms; they had more than repaid the incessant care he had bestowed on their culture. A look of satisfaction, even of pride, gathered on his features—the pride and satisfaction of the successful horticulturist. From that vase of sweet-peas he wandered over to gaze lovingly at an etching by Forain, and another by Zorn, hanging on the wall opposite the fire-place. These two etchings constituted the sole personal note struck by Gregory Grierson in the furnishing of Room 83, which in all other respects conformed to the taste of the mysterious genius responsible for the embellishment of Government interiors.
Mr. Grierson was a man of considerable refinement, and he had often felt grateful to that mysterious genius for the amazing skill with which he had eliminated every vestige of himself—of a human being with predilections—from his work. The unobtrusive greens of the walls, the silent, non-committal carpets, the mute and passionless reserve of the hearth-rugs (worked with the Royal monogram to obviate theft rather than add ornament) could never impinge on the consciousness or offend the susceptibilities of the most sensitive soul that might have to pass the greater part of his earthly existence among them. Mr. Grierson glanced round the room and for a moment entertained the seductive vision of Room 83 furnished to the standard of his fastidious taste. But to indulge the vision was only a pleasant folly after all...
He returned to his desk, sat down and commenced the day’s work. He had not been seated long when Bliss, one of his staff, entered with a précis of some correspondence and laid it on his chief’s desk. Bliss was about to return to his own room when Mr. Grierson swung round in his chair and spoke to him.
“Any telephone message for me this morning, Bliss?” he asked.
“No, sir. Have you had any further news of Lord Bygrave?”
“None whatever. Scotland Yard rang me up last night and told me that one of their representatives would call here to-day. Show him in to me at once on his arrival.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Altogether it’s a most extraordinary business—I can’t understand it. However, now that the police are on the track there’s just a possibility that they’ll shed some light on the mystery. The Press have already raised the hue and cry, and this morning one Daily published a photograph of Lord Bygrave with the offer of £100 reward for information that will lead to his discovery, dead or alive. What a topic of conversation for the town!”
“I can’t imagine what can have happened to him!” exclaimed Bliss with a perplexed air.
“There’s no knowing in these days of unrest and anarchy what may suddenly happen to any public man,” replied Mr. Grierson gravely. “However, perhaps I’m looking on the matter with undue pessimism. Let’s hope there’ll be a happy solution to the mystery after all.”
Mr. Grierson turned again to his desk to signify that the conversation might be considered at an end, and Bliss passed through the door leading into the juniors’ room (as it was always called), where his colleague Murray was eagerly awaiting him.
“Any news of Bygrave?” asked Murray, unable to allow Bliss a protracted enjoyment of an air of importance
which the possession of secret information had already bestowed on him.
“None at all,” said Bliss curtly and sat down at his desk.
“I hope they’ve rung up Bygrave Hall,” remarked Murray. “Bygrave may simply have gone home slightly indisposed.”
“True, Murray, true! You seem to wish to be helpful,” replied Bliss mockingly, “but you must fling off these luminous remarks to the Scotland Yard official when he arrives this morning.”
“Good Lord, are we going to have a visit from Scotland Yard?” asked Murray excitedly.
“Yes,” replied Bliss, noticing with some satisfaction the electrical effect of his communication.
“My hat!” exclaimed Murray. “The shadow of romance has actually fallen across the prosaic threshold of the Ministry.”
“I think we may consider that it’s our day,” said Bliss with a faint smile. “By the way, Murray, have you decided how you’re going to pose for the Press photographer?”
“Bless my soul, no, not yet. Things are moving so swiftly. I’m glad you’ve called my attention to the point—it’s important. What do you think of, say, a three-quarter view, seated at my desk, telephone receiver in one hand and quill pen in the other? Have we any quills left? I feel a quill is essential. But have you got your story ready for the interviewer? ‘Mr. Bliss’s Story’ they’ll call it.”
“I shall work that up at lunch over my sausages and mash and one veg., as the waitress calls it,” replied Bliss quietly. “What is intriguing me at present is whether I shall be photographed with my morning coat open or buttoned. It’s most difficult to decide.”
At this moment the door opened and a uniformed messenger ushered in a heavy-jawed, forceful-looking man in a blue serge suit, holding in his hand a bowler hat which gave Murray the swift impression that it was much too small for the owner’s massive head.
“Detective-Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard,” said the messenger to Bliss. “Is Mr. Grierson in, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Bliss; “he’s at present in his room and is expecting Inspector Heather. Please show the inspector in, Johnson.”
The messenger opened the door leading into Mr. Grierson’s room, and Detective-Inspector Heather passed out of Murray’s devouring vision. The door closed and Johnson vanished with a topic of conversation that would vie in interest with the “probable winners” among the other occupants of the messengers’ room for the remainder of the day.
Mr. Grierson rose at once from his desk on Detective-Inspector Heather’s entry and offered him a chair close to his own.
“No news of Lord Bygrave yet, inspector?” he asked anxiously as he passed the officer a box of cigarettes.
“None so far, sir, but I feel somehow or other that it won’t be long before we hear something definite,” replied the inspector in a quiet conversational tone. His eye, apparently occupied with the general aspect and arrangement of the room, was actually weighing up Mr. Grierson as far as that gentleman’s outward appearance gave food for conjecture as to his nature and habits.
Though ever on the alert and suspicious of every one, Inspector Heather was not long in forming his opinion of Mr. Grierson. His opinion of Mr. Grierson was that he was simply a Government official—a man who is very highly paid for doing very little work. It was unusual of Inspector Heather to make hasty assumptions of this type, but then his mind was working under the compelling influence of a great British tradition—the legend that no work has been or is ever done by a civil servant. In justice to the inspector’s fairness, it must be admitted that he coupled Mr. Grierson’s facile evasion of work and capture of salary with an unquestionable probity, an unimpeachable respectability. He was moderately safe in this, for an official of the Mint has never yet been caught making spurious coin, nor a Treasury official yet run away with a million of the Treasury funds.
He also thought Mr. Grierson a gentleman: there was an air of culture and refinement about his bearing, and just the requisite amount of superiority which Inspector Heather found in most of the people he called gentlemen.
“Can I do anything for you, inspector?” asked Mr. Grierson urbanely.
“Well, I should like to ask a few questions which may be possibly of some assistance in my investigation, if you can spare the time just now,” replied the inspector, producing notebook and pencil.
“I’m at your service,” replied Mr. Grierson, lighting a cigarette and settling himself comfortably in his chair.
“As far as I have been able to gather up to the present, Lord Bygrave left London for the village of Hartwood on Friday, the 1st of the month, intending to spend a fortnight or so in the country. He arrived at the White Bear Inn rather late that night, left early next morning and seems to have vanished completely. Before going down there for more detailed information I should like to know, Mr. Grierson, when he left this office.”
“He usually leaves at four, but on that night—so Murray, one of my clerks, tells me—he left at five. I myself had an appointment at four, and left at 3.30, so that I was not here. You can, however, take Murray’s statement as accurate, because he would probably be eagerly awaiting Lord Bygrave’s departure before he himself felt free to go.”
“He would be blessing Lord Bygrave for staying late, if I am any judge of these young gentlemen,” remarked the inspector.
“We were all young once,” replied Mr. Grierson, with fatherly tolerance.
“Have you yourself made any Inquiries in likely quarters since you heard of Lord Bygrave’s disappearance?” asked the inspector, looking sharply at Mr. Grierson.
“Oh, yes,” replied the latter at once. “I immediately rang up Bygrave Hall and asked Farnish, his butler, if he had any information of his lordship. Farnish knew nothing of Lord Bygrave’s whereabouts and had received no instructions from him since the morning of the 1st.”
“I believe Lord Bygrave is a bachelor?” asked Inspector Heather.
“A confirmed bachelor, like myself,” replied Mr. Grierson.
“Has he any residence in town?”
“None; and if he is obliged through his duties to stay in town—a contingency he detests—he always puts up at Jauvrin’s Hotel, in Jermyn Street. I have inquired there also, but found that Lord Bygrave had not stayed there since April last.”
Detective-Inspector Heather was lost in thought for some moments.
“I suppose a gentleman in Lord Bygrave’s position can come and go pretty much as he chooses,” he remarked. “Now, Mr. Grierson, from your knowledge of him do you attach any importance to his disappearance?”
“I’m inclined to think something serious has happened to him, inspector, though naturally I hope that my fears are groundless. The whole occurrence is most unusual and quite incompatible with my knowledge of him; yet, for the life of me, I cannot suggest anything to elucidate the mystery,” replied Mr. Grierson, thoroughly mystified.
“That’s bad, that’s bad!” exclaimed the inspector. “Know a man and you can make a fair guess at what he’ll do, and indirectly what may be likely to happen to him. What sort of a man is his lordship?”
“Though he is a Minister and always to a certain extent in the public eye, he is by nature a shy, reserved and retiring man. Public life is really a martyrdom for him. He has only suffered that martyrdom because of a profound conviction that it is his bounden duty to serve his country, regardless of his own personal preference for the peaceful oblivion of the life of a country gentleman. His tastes are those of a naturalist, and he has often said that, when he is too old for the service of the State, he will retire and commence his own life in earnest. There is nothing he likes better than to bury himself in some out-of-the-way English village and forget that the world of politics and business exists.”
“H’m,” replied the inspector. “You feel sure that there’s nothing more than the desire for a peaceful life that takes Lord Bygrave on these quiet excursions. No lady in the background—eh?”
“No, inspector,” said Mr. Grierson, unable
to suppress a smile at the suggestion. “You can take it from me that it’s not a case of cherchez la femme. Nor is Lord Bygrave a man of mysteries. On his return from these holidays he is full of his experiences, which he never fails to relate to me.”
Inspector Heather was silent for a few moments.
“Has he any personal enemies that you know of?” he asked.
“It would be difficult, I think, to find anyone of whom it could be more truly said that he hasn’t an enemy in the world,” replied Mr. Grierson impressively, and then added: “I use the word enemy in the sense of a harbourer of personal hatred that might lead to physical violence. Political hatred is merely the rancour that arises from bad sportsmanship in a Party game; in England I suppose it may be considered negligible from a criminal point of view.”
“Nothing is negligible from a criminal point of view,” remarked Inspector Heather, as if it were a line from a Criminal Investigation Department credo. His eyes roamed slowly over the pattern of the carpet. “Has Lord Bygrave been to Hartwood before?” he asked.
“I believe he spent a few days at the White Bear Inn at Hartwood some years ago—but I may be wrong, my memory is not one of the best. He had a mania for staying in what he called good, old-fashioned, country inns.”
“They’re all right if the beer’s good,” commented the inspector seriously. “Did he travel on these occasions as Lord Bygrave?” he asked.
“I believe he often reverted to the family name of Darnell—Henry Darnell—to avoid attracting unnecessary attention. He used to say he didn’t mind being considered a man of the people if it meant being charged popular prices.”
At this point in the conversation Johnson entered and informed Mr. Grierson that a Mr. Algernon Vereker would like to see him.
“Mr. Algernon Vereker!” exclaimed Mr. Grierson, with a faint show of surprise. “A friend of Lord Bygrave’s! I have often heard Lord Bygrave speak of him. He may be of some use to us, inspector. Show Mr. Vereker in, Johnson.”
The Spirit Murder Mystery Page 24
